


Spring Fever

by Not_You



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: AU, Fauns & Satyrs, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Rimming, Watersports, general goatiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 13:41:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a kinkmeme prompt:</p><p>It's mating season and the satyrs are out hunting for a mate. Hunting literally means hunting; there's no courting of the sort. Most goes after fauns and nymphs, but weaker ones go after humans.</p><p>Spotting faun!Charles, Satyr!Erik goes all caveman and drags Charles back to his cave for some rutting.</p><p>(Erik hunts, but would never hurt his prey.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spring Fever

It's not that Erik doesn't feel normal urges in spring, he's just never felt them strongly enough to justify acting like a beast. There had been that lovely human girl with the travelers' wagon, but even though he had approached as gently as he knew how, she had been frightened and run back to her mother. He still thinks about her sometimes, and has watched the nymphs and fauns from afar and especially in the spring, but he does not take part in the Hunt. They've come to an accord here, where the satyrs run through their section of wood, and those who don't wish to be carried off either avoid the place until late summer when it gets too hot to fuck, or only enter it with protection. There are the wicked ones like Shaw who prefer the unwilling, but most of Erik's brethren are honestly overcome. He's the odd one out, wandering far from their woods on this perfect day. The sun is out but not too hot, and there's a warm breeze and no biting insects, only peaceable ones droning in the early fields.

Erik makes his way by secret routes to a little grotto he knows, where the water will be as mild as the air and the old toads will tell you secrets if you can catch them. He's planning on resting there, maybe wading up the stream to catch a few fish when he gets hungry. He is most definitely _not_ planning on being overwhelmed with the fabled mating impulse, but that's what happens.

Erik likes variety. He likes nymphs and humans of all sexes and the occasional other satyr, but the fauns might be his favorite. They're so graceful, and they have the sweet, foolish faces of children with eyes older than time. The one before him now is the most beautiful he has ever seen. Erik's goat parts are grey, like dust or dull metal depending on how groomed he is on a given day. He picks up burrs and his skin is scarred. His horns are twisted like old trees, and his sharp teeth show in his rare smiles. The point of one canine shows over his lower lip, the other broken off years ago. He could not be more different from the vision of perfection in front of him. His skin is pale and perfect, only lightly touched by the sun, and his goat parts are a soft gold with dark brown countershading that matches the curls on his head. His whole body is slender and sleek, and his cloven hooves are graceful and strong. His eyes are as blue as the sapphire in the head of the toad he's holding in a careful two-handed grip.

"And where does the white stag sleep, my slippery friend?" His voice is soft and touched with some accent Erik has never heard but cannot now get enough of. He can feel his blood heating and his mind clouding over, powerless to stop it.

"At the source of this very spring," the toad croaks, "which is why the water is so pure."

"I see. Thank you very much." He sets the toad down, rinsing his hands.

"Because you have held me gently and not stolen my jewel, I will tell you that there is a rutting satyr lurking on that bank."

The faun yelps in alarm and leaps up like a deer, but Erik has caught and eaten deer, and his body knows how to match that leap. He bolts after the faun, incapable of thought or speech, only the chase. He can feel that oiliness at the base of his horns, and his throat and jaw tense and then open of their own volition to let out the long, rough hunting cry of the satyr. The faun is fast and clever and has the sense not to look back, ears turning to pinpoint Erik's location as his eyes watch for hazards ahead. He springs lightly and would escape altogether if not for a serpent in his path. 

The faun startles back and Erik catches up, pulling him into his arms and stamping, driving the snake back into the underbrush. That done, he can concentrate on his prize. His skin and fur are as smooth as Erik had known they would be, and he struggles wildly as Erik buries his face in the crook of his neck, growling in irritation to find him too clean for his wonderful scent to be very strong. He can't help rutting against him a little, and it makes his head clear enough to understand words again, to realize that the faun is sobbing and begging to be let go. Fear is making his scent acrid, ruining it and making Erik feel like a monster, a beast like Shaw. Shame washes over him in a scalding wave, and he opens his arms and lets the most perfect creature he's ever seen escape his grasp. He's expecting the faun to run away, but he stands there in the trail, still shaking and studying Erik with wide eyes. Erik does his best not so squirm, aware that he's still hard and wild-eyed.

"...Thank you," the faun says softly.

"...I am no monster," Erik growls, clenching his fists to keep from reaching out again.

"I see that now." He actually takes a step closer, and Erik lets out another cry, scowling and covering his mouth with both hands. The faun actually _giggles_ , the insolent little thing, but Erik just can't be angry with him. Not when there are still tears on that perfect face. He can't help himself this time and does reach out, wiping them away. He's expecting the faun to cringe away, not to lean into the touch. Erik shudders, and can't help a pitiful little whining noise at the back of his throat. The faun's eyes widen, but he doesn't smell like fear. Erik groans, and can smell his own musk deepening as he catches the faun's light, rare scent. "…I… I actually think I'd rather like being carried off. If you don't mind."

At that, Erik is helpless, overcome again. He had been meaning to ask this sweet forest child's name, to take his hand like something civilized. As it is he can't think, and just heaves the faun over his shoulder, bellowing once in triumph before making the run back to his cave, teeth bared. He's not showy, and he's not going to parade his catch. He runs quietly, and uses the shadows to his advantage before making the final climb to the mountain crag where he lives. The faun starts to struggle partway up the slope, and halfway Erik stops, brain finally working again.

"I haven't changed my mind," The faun is saying, "I just want you to actually be fit when we get there. Up ahead, then?" He gestures and Erik nods. And then the faun is off, bounding away up the mountain, and Erik has no choice but to chase him. And to catch him, right at the mouth of the cave, snatching him into his arms again. This time is so much better, the faun shivering happily and turning in his arms to nuzzle Erik's jaw.

"I meant to ask your name before," Erik growls, grip tightening.

"Charles," the faun whispers. "Yours?"

Erik is proud that he can do something besides snarl, 'mine', and tells Charles his name. And that's all the brainpower Erik has left, dragging him into the soothing dimness of the cave and pressing him down on the rough pallet. Charles is docile and pliant, and that just makes Erik's blood run hotter. He ruts against him more roughly than he means to, but Charles just whines happily and lets him, furred legs falling open to cradle Erik's hips. He sinks sharp teeth into the faun's neck, breaking skin and tasting the heady sweetness of his blood. Charles cries out and there's a little fear again, but this is like bitter herbs to season a meal. And Erik knows he won't go too far, knows he won't really hurt him. He could never really hurt Charles, his precious prey. Charles whimpers and arches his back, pressing into Erik's touch. The fear is mellowing away into an even deeper sweetness now, as Erik kisses and laves the small wound, shuddering.

"Never hurt you," he hears himself growling, " _mine_ …" This has gone far past a case of spring fever, but he can't stop now. He never could have, and whimpers desperately at the feel of Charles's hard cock against his own. Charles is shaking under him, and cries out softly as Erik pulls away and rolls him onto his belly. He can't stop muttering and growling about how beautiful Charles is, how perfect and sweet. Charles just makes desperate little mewling noises, letting out a startled bleat when Erik shifts back to part his fur and work the tip of his tongue into him. Charles is tight and it takes a while, but Erik doesn't mind. All impatience before, he can be calm now because he has his mate. He can drown in the scent and feel of Charles, lose himself in the music of the faun's pounding heart. Charles writhes and begs in the rare moments when he can form words, sobbing as Erik works him open so carefully. Erik growls his own pleasure, fingers and tongue gentle, fangs kept away from tender flesh save for the occasional deliberate little graze that makes Charles whine and flick his tail impatiently.

" _Please!_ " he sobs at last, "Please, Erik!"

He lets out a triumphant, possessive cry and ranges over Charles, biting his neck again to match the mark on the other side as he slides in. He's nearly as narrow as a true goat at the tip, and that makes it easier, the stretch gradual as he sinks in. He's making hunting noises again, but Charles has no room to mock him now, making his own wild faun sounds, helpless and lost and as fast as he can draw breath. Erik fucks him deep and rough, because he wants Charles to feel it after he pulls out, he wants to fill him with seed so it runs out and streaks the fur of his thighs. He finds words again and tells Charles so, biting the delicate point of his ear and making him wail and tighten so hard it hurts. Erik grunts and growls, thrusting against the resistance and making Charles whine and shake, his whole body relaxing and just letting Erik have him.

A rutting satyr is a force to be reckoned with, and the sun is down and Charles is completely exhausted before they stop. Erik holds him close, very pleased with himself as Charles whimpers, limp and helpless and reeking of Erik now. He had bleated in shocked protest the first time Erik had pissed inside him, whimpering weakly about it being filthy and degrading, but had just moaned the second time. Erik rumbles happily and kisses him another time or five before getting up and scratching together a fire. Unlike most satyrs, he hasn't really stocked up for mating season, but he does have enough food to make something fit for his beloved. He crouches by the fire until everything is right and then goes back to Charles, nuzzling him and rocking against his furred thigh. He asks if he can take him again, and Charles moans softly.

"Yes, but don't expect me to stay awake for it."

Erik laughs, and sucks roughly at one nipple. "I'll wake you for dinner."

Charles does doze off during another slow, leisurely round of fucking, but wakes up with a soft moan as Erik fills him again. He blushes and squirms, looking up through his lashes. 

"Honestly, Erik. I'm not a tree and you're not a dog."

Erik chuckles, nuzzling him. "You'd object more if you didn't like it."

Charles whimpers and shivers, and lies there watching as Erik stirs the fish and checks on the barley. When it's nearly ready, Charles heaves himself up and goes to the forest to empty himself before coming back. Erik is proud of his work. The marks on that pale skin, the big, dark eyes with their well-fucked expression and that wonderful mouth, redder than red with a thousand kisses. When Charles sits down by the fire, Erik props the faun up against his chest and dishes up the oily, nourishing soup, putting his one bowl in Charles's hands and sipping out of the dipper. They eat the roasted barley with their hands, and Erik finds himself explaining his fish-drying technique to an eager audience. It turns out that Erik's little faun is a scholar, and he chatters away about his projects and his magical studies and asks Erik a ridiculous number of questions about the forest and his life in it.

And then the little fool wants to walk home by himself! On a warm, starlit night in spring, in a wood full of satyrs. Erik absolutely forbids it, and Charles just laughs and says that he'll let Erik escort him if it'll ease his mind. Erik grumbles, and stalks into the night with Charles, every sense on high alert. He prowls beside the faun, sharp eyes piercing the dark. He can smell a few of the others lurking about, but none of them is Shaw and they all have the sense to keep back. Charles just tells him more about his studies and his travels, and Erik listens with one ear, the other cocked out for threats.

Finally they arrive at the beautiful grotto that Charles shares with his sister Raven. There's a deep pool fed by a clear spring, and their cave is roomy and secure, the whole area protected by ancient trees and delicate, subtle spells that Erik can feel in his bones as Charles's work. He steps lightly through it, glad to feel the strength of the protection. Especially when he actually sees Raven as she comes running out with a bow and quiver slung across her back, a spear in her hands.

"Charles!" Her hair flares in red flames, and her eyes glow with yellow ones, her skin the clear and sparkling blue of the sea. Erik goes a little weak in the knees, even with Charles right beside him. "Where have you been?" She gets closer and wrinkles her nose, covering it with one hand.

"Getting shagged silly by a satyr, as you can see."

She looks Charles and then Erik up and down. "Well, you don't seem hurt, I guess I don't need to kill him."

Charles laughs. "Of course not, I went willingly."

"Well, go and bathe before you come in. Downriver. _Well_ downriver."

Erik can't help but be a bit offended at this slight to his scent, but Charles just laughs and says that it's an acquired taste. Irritating as it is to have his mate scrubbing himself scentless, it's fun to help. And there are other ways of marking one's beloved. Jewelry, tattooing… He's still thinking about it as Charles leads him up to the cave, smirking and talking about the importance of returning hospitality.


End file.
